When Your Kid Starts Getting Embarrassed About You

When I pictured being a Mom, I always hoped that I’d be that cool Mom.

You know the one that all the kids think is approachable and friendly, enforces discipline but also knows how to have fun.  I imagined my kids being proud to have me as their mother despite the fact that I’ll totally and absolutely do a chicken dance at their first dance social.

But let’s fast forward a couple years to actually having children shall we…

Because nothing messes up your plans on having and raising children quite like actually having children.

We had a pretty good run.  The girls are now 7 and 6, with Knox bringing up the rear at 4.  Up until, say last week, I was nailing the Mom thing.  No, no, no – not nailing everything that goes with being a Mom – I never nail that.  I mean that I was nailing the facade of motherhood.  The kids never seemed to be embarrassed by me and they enjoyed having me around them.

Until last week.

I made the mistake of calling Knox by his nickname in front of his new school friends.  I guess when you’re 4 and your mother calls you Socks in front of your friends and they start laughing at you, then it’s OK to start to wish your mother didn’t open her big fat mouth.

The poor guy was being laughed at so I logically made the point that everyone has a nickname that their parents call them.  I used to be called Mouse.  It’s totally normal.  They offered that theirs was “Troy Trout” and other variations.  But apparently none as funny as Socks.

My poor boy looked mortified.  He’s not used to being laughed at maliciously.  So at first he sorted of joined in, but then he looked at me and said, “Can you neva tall me dat again!“.

And then it was my turn to be mortified.  I’ve become that Mom.  The one that embarrasses their kid.

I know it’s not a big deal and it’s totally over (it happened last week and there have been no further repercussions on the matter), but still.  It seems to have started a spiral of things that they don’t like.

For example, yesterday in the car on the way home from her ballet rehearsal, Kyla told me that she hates my hair and that I need to go back to being a blonde.  Which is funny because at 30 my own Mother was (naturally) grey and I made her dye it because people always told me that my granny was at the gate to fetch me.  It probably didn’t help that she wore her bright pink stokies at the same time too.

And now history is in fact repeating itself.  Except I haven’t even rocked up in any bright pink stokies yet.

Maybe it’s time to stock up.